Into the Black
by IronSaint98
Summary: A single pulse laser shot changed the fate of the UNSC Bismarck and her crew. Twenty-four hundred souls sent adrift through realities. Arriving in a no name system without any idea of where or when they are it is up to their Captain to see them to calm waters. But fate does not like to be denied, and their actions will have consequences.
1. Chapter 1

Mistaken Fate

"All I want to know is did we lose them?" Captain James "Jean Paul" Jones demands. The young captain stands tall and proud in his UNSC Naval uniform before the window at the front of his bridge. The stars twinkle merrily beyond the two-inch thick glass and resin panel as if amused by his plight. The distant colorful bulk of a gas giant spins at the center of its rings so similar to Saturn, kilometer wide asteroids no larger than grains of sand.

"I believe we did. No further Slipspace radiation is detected and scans are reading negative on all known Covenant signatures." The holographic representation of the ship's AI Blucher reports stoically. The AI even speaks with a heavy German accent to better imitate the famous Prussian General and Field Marshal, seemingly choosing such a quirk to better fit with the reputation of the ship he inhabits. The _UNSC Bismarck,_ the infamous battleship reborn as an _Epoch_-class heavy carrier. One of the most powerful ships in the human fleet though battered after the fierce holding action above Reginald's World.

The Captain grunts and glances at the numerous displays streaming data. The data pad in his hand displays the current munitions and manning numbers along with other consumables. The silence stretches on unbroken but for the standard buzz of communication between the myriad departments formed to undertake the functions of the mighty warship. The inability to find their location in the galaxy is troubling to say the least…and he can't even blame it on a software glitch.

"Put us on silent running, cut the engines and restrict all emissions to LOS only and passives. I want us to be just another sensor hole in space."

"Aye sir." Running lights along the titanic hull wink out all at once, glowing hot engines sputter and die. The familiar rumbling of the colossal engines, a constant companion for every crewman worth their salt, dies off leaving the bridge suddenly silent. Thick titanium blast shields rise over the bridge windows effectively sealing the crew off from any view of space other than the data coming through their consoles and the images of the long-range scopes. The strong telescopes allow a captain to see his foe with his own eyes rather than the streams of data that he would normally be restricted to.

"Update me as soon as you figure out what went wrong with our jump. Until then I want repair parties fixing what we can and shoring up the damaged sections of armor. Cannibalize the Scorpions for materials if we have to."

Over the next three days the _Bismarck's_ crew began the arduous task of patching the wounds their beloved ship suffered at the hands of the Covenant. Pulse lasers, plasma and fuel rod cannons all scored wounds in her meter of Titanium-A battle plating yet failed to pierce her. Each of the EVA repair crews counts themselves lucky that no plasma torpedoes were directed their way knowing that they would be little more than ionized particles floating around the tattered wreck of a ship. Slowly but surely the ravaged armor is patched over under the watchful eye of the Chiefs and First Classes.

The remaining marines and a stray fireteam of ODSTs make themselves somewhat useful by shifting supplies and munitions from damaged storage areas or just generally staying out of the crew's way. And of course, they workout, break things they have no business touching, and clog up the chow lines. All things that fail to endear them to the sailors forced to sail with them. On the fourth day, just as the final patch is being welded into place, odd readings begin flowing through the CIC and comms center.

Strange radio waves on frequencies never used by humanity or the Covenant, radiation and gravitational spikes that make no sense to even Blucher, and then the sight coming through the scopes. Strange ships simply slamming to a stop in a burst of strange radiation readings, most of them shaped like triangles with two pilons jutting from their hull. Their grey and red hulls are dotted with turrets, most no larger than the secondary armament mounted by the _Bismarck_. The dual quartets of large and medium ships and a trio of corvette analogues accelerate in system past the gas giant before spinning around to face the way they came.

Just in time for twenty-three more ships to arrive in the same manner. These ones are of a less solid design, more linear with sloping hulls over a jagged superstructure. An exposed and unarmored bridge structure juts over the bow which is armed with two large cannons supported by banks of smaller ones. The two fleets close to a surprisingly short range before engaging slinging red and blue bolts of energy back and forth.

The bridge crew watches as the energy readings of the two fleets begin going wild before adding wings of fighters into the mix. The mystifyingly close range of the two fleets continues to confuse the _Bismarck's_ officers who are used to engagements at hundreds of thousands of kilometers distance rather than twenty thousand. The total reliance on energy weapons of dubious strength is also strange to them without the contrails of missiles that no doubt would strain the shields of both fleets should they be used.

"Captain…I'm having trouble getting a hold of their communications. They're speaking in an unknown language and their codes don't match our own."

"Do your best Blucher. I've got a feeling that we're a long way from home."

"Concentrate all fire on the third _Munificent_! Gold Squadron is to begin attack runs on the second and divert power to point defense arrays from comms!" Jedi Master Maka Drana barks from the bridge of the _Venator_-class Star Destroyer _Martyr_. The human Jedi struggles to maintain her center as the Separatists press their advantage in numbers on her beleaguered and undersupplied fleet. Ammunition is running low on every ship leaving them poorly equipped to engage a fleet of this size. A skeleton crew of bombers and fighters contributes to the almost clearly sabotaged fleet.

A war so freshly begun should not have had their fleet so poorly equipped and rushed to fill a gap. Not one so far from the frontlines. What little military strategy she was taught screams that this whole operation was a set up to get her fleet out of the way. The orders make little sense: reinforce a minor front with her full strike group of four _Venators_, seven _Acclimators_, and three _Arquitens_ escorts with promises of supply when they arrive. And then an over strength Separatist fleet jumped onto their heads and nearly trapped them in system if not for the residual charge in their Hyperdrives allowing them to make a random jump to an uninhabited system.

She banishes the wandering thoughts from her mind and focuses on keeping her fleet alive. The as yet untested troops in the holds of the assault ships and cruisers deserve to die fighting with their boots on the ground not choking in the void because of the Navy's cock-up. Fighters, both Separatist and Republic, twist and dive around each other in a deadly dance that sees many pilots pay with their lives. Point defense laser batteries add their fury to the dogfight plucking scores of droid fighters out of the vacuum but there are still more than enough to force a path to the capital ships.

"Ma'am _Providence _is losing shields!" a Clone officer reports from his station. The Jedi bites back a curse as one of the _Acclimators_ shudders and burns with the fury of the turbolaser fire hammering its smaller frame. Ablative armor boils away exposing compartments to the void and signing the death warrant of dozens of sailors. The gunnery officer snarls and redoubles his efforts pounding one _Munificent_ to dust alongside the remaining guns of the _Providence_ and the _Pummeler_, one of the _Venators_. They're not in time to save the _Providence_ which detonates in a bright ball of fire and hot wreckage. Taking with it the entirety of her crew and the 23rd Assault Legion. Almost ten thousand soldiers gone in an instant. Four-hundred thousand kilometers distant a ship none of them knows exists watches it all unfold.

"Holy shit…" someone mutters breaking the silence that cloaks the bridge. One of the cruiser sized ships winks out of existence in a brilliant explosion before their very eyes. The more jagged ships move near instantly to exploit the sudden gap in the formation with ruthless efficiency, flooding the gap in point defense with their fighters and pounding everything in range. Brutal tactics that are paying off as more of the defending ships lose their shielding.

The grim silence is broken by the excited voice of Blucher appearing on his pedestal a holographic sabre drawn in his hand.

"Captain those are _human ships!_" The descendant of one of the most famous captains in history whips around to stare incredulously at the tiny man staring back at him. Blucher is an AI, beings of code and programming that think in code and absolutes. He thinks faster than any human alive and is almost solely responsible for coordination and accuracy of the ship's many weapons. He can hack through a Covenant mainframe like it was wet paper and he was an axe. He doesn't make mistakes.

The bridge crew blinks at the AI's avatar and then their captain who takes one heavy breath. He has a choice: continue to run silent and dark keeping his crew and ship safe while the unknown fleets duked it out…or engage and save human lives. Like every man and woman on board swore to do against all enemies foreign and domestic.

"Sound general quarters! Get the MAC charged and prep all missile pods. Broadside and point defense prioritize fighters when they get in range. Prep all fighters for fast launch and give me all ahead full!" The bridge bursts into familiar activity. The few remaining repair parties scramble back into the airlocks as the titanic engines roar to life once more. The reactors roar to life spreading the familiar rumble that seeps into a spacer's bones. The heartbeat of their ship. Gunnery crews scramble to their stations and begin prepping their weapons.

A six-hundred-ton slug of ferric-tungsten is slotted into place in the MAC's breach, missile systems are armed, and fire controls slaved to the bridge, point defense weapons cycle the first rounds into place. Marines sprint to the armories to be armed and armored before breaking off by squad to defend key areas of their ship. The Captain knows all this in the back of his mind. He knows every function of his ship and her behaviors.

"_Vorwarts!_" Blucher barks as the _Bismarck_ leaps forward like an eager puppy. Jones settles into his command chair and brings up his display watching the charge level of his main gun climb while the distance to target shrinks steadily.

"Blucher I want a spread of Archers to distract that bastard lingering at the back and a priority target on that one breaking the human lines. You have the point defense." Jones makes rapid calculations settling on a maneuver that will offer the shortest window of danger while allowing his ship to deal the most amount of damage it can against the alien ships. Blucher waits to release the Archer missiles until they reach max-velocity using the _Bismarck's_ speed to augment the engines of the missiles. The response to their sudden appearance is sluggish to Jones' trained and experienced eyes. Two ships peel off from the assault still hesitating to fire until the missiles are launched in plumes of fire and smoke. Four pods of twenty missiles designed to tear ships apart.

Two different missiles leap free of their own pods a hair behind the Archers, specialized programming keeping them towards the rear and using the more numerous Archers as a cloak. Point defense fire lashes out at the Archers plucking a few out of the flock but their evasion routines are designed to get through Covenant pulse lasers. Only ten out of a flock of eighty are shot down. The remainder slam into full strength deflector shields, the sheer force of the explosion scrambling sensors and weakening the shields for the two following M4020 Bident nuclear pumped X-ray laser warheads.

The Bident missile acts as essentially a catalyst that powers the X-ray lasers through a focusing rod. The effect is a single extremely powerful laser that rips through almost anything before it for a thousand kilometers. A thousand kilometers is a short distance in space warfare making it a hard weapon to land against a foe expecting it. The alien ships are not.

The first warhead detonates spearing the bow cannons of the alien ship gouging through armor plate and ripping into the magazines behind them. The front half of the ship ceases to exist as all the ammunition detonates under the power of the laser. The second warhead detonates slightly off centerline. Shields buckle and die allowing the laser through, ripping through the ship from the starboard-dorsal quarter to ventral-port. Power lines are severed, guns ripped from their mounts, and atmosphere sucked from their corridors. The main guns remain intact and deadly swiftly taking aim on the approaching carrier.

"Damn good shooting Blucher now aim for the same spot with the Mark-15s," Jones orders and scans the plot. The wounded ship is now well beyond immediate help while the main fleet presses the human vessels. Their allies give a good account of themselves claiming a trio of the alien ships for the cost of two escorts and heavy damage to one of the cruisers. But the holes in their fire patterns are beginning to widen and they are steadily taking more damage.

A pair of sharp _bangs_ reverberate through the hull. Jones grins as a pair of sixty-five-ton slugs leap from the forward mounted Mark-15 Breakwater coil guns. Essentially miniature MAC guns, the Mark-15s are powerful additions to any warship's armament useful for both planetary bombardment and ship-to-ship fire. The two comparatively small slugs zip through the space between ships and then slam into the wounded alien ship like twin sledgehammers, ferric tungsten shatter battle plate before finally ripping into the magazines. Once again, a miniature star rips through a ship's hull.

"Time to MAC charge?"

"Thirty seconds."

"Incoming enemy fire, maneuvering thrusters firing now," Blucher reports dutifully a half second before the port maneuvering thrusters fire on full burn shoving the thirty-five-million-ton carrier to the side. Crimson bolts zip past harmlessly without even scorching her armor or even inconveniencing her crew. "Returning fire."

The Mark-15s belch their payloads once again this time deflecting off flickering shields protecting a third alien ship. The alien ship's bow is forced down robbing its cannons of a firing lane. A sign of poor ship design is put on display with none of the rapid-fire energy cannons being mounted along the dorsal surface leaving half of the ship undefended.

A second volley of Mark-15 rounds pounds the dorsal shields visibly breaking them though doing nothing to the hull.

"Fire Archer pods twelve and thirteen on that bastard!" the Captain leans forward in his seat as the Archers scream from their pods and make a beeline for the unshielded vessel.

"Ma'am that unknown ship is firing again!" The Jedi and her crew can only watch in awe as the large ship releases another massive salvo of missiles the home in on the unshielded _Munificent_. Distantly she's aware of the beating her fleet is still taking. But the sight of forty powerful missiles screaming in on the stricken Star Frigate without fear of point defense weapons is mesmerizing. The quick missiles home in on the frigate and burrow into the light spinal armor before detonating and ripping gaping wounds throughout the structure before another wave impacts widening those holes. The force of the explosions and the stress they inflict on the frigate's frame crack it in half.

"Force preserve us…"

"Ma'am we're detecting a power field building in the unknown ship," the same Clone reports his eyes glued to his station. The readings spike suddenly before his very eyes converting into a magnetic field and then disappearing. Only for an incredibly fast and dense projectile to leap from the strange ship's prow and slam into the Separatist command frigate. A flurry of ion-charged bolts slam into the frigate's shields an instant before the four-hundred-ton slug slams into it. Shields buckle and die leaving armor plating, too light for a warship of its size, exposed to the raw power of a MAC round traveling at thirty-thousand meters per second.

The frigate ceases to exist. The kinetic energy transferred into its frame shatters the once solid durasteel leaving a once proud warship as little more than a floating cloud of fragments. Or would have if the reactor hadn't gone critical with an explosion like a dying sun obliterating whatever was left. Both fleets seem to freeze for a moment before the Separatists turn about and accelerate away at full speed, allowing the Republic vessels an unimpeded shot up their skirts. Vengeful _Venators, _and _Acclimators_ pour on the fire claiming another two _Munificents_ before they disappear into Hyperspace.

Jedi Master Drana sighs in relief and eyes the unknown ship on the plot. Her fleet, despite the assistance given by the strange ship, is heavily damaged. Hull plating melted or gone in some places, every ship bears new scars, and only a few squadrons of the fleet's fighter component remains intact; they do not present a pretty picture.

"All ships send damage reports to _Martyr_, keep shields and guns charged. Let's not be too hasty to look threatening but I don't want to be surprised by our new friends."

"Ma'am… we have an incoming transmission from the unknown vessel, audio only."

"Patch it in." The link is scratchy for a second before a strong voice comes through the speakers.

_"__This is Captain James Jones of the _UNSC Bismarck_ assigned to Battle Group Bismarck, UNSC Twelfth Fleet to unknown vessels. We come in peace."_


	2. Chapter 2

Hulls and Blood

Blucher watches through the cameras and sensors of his home as the strange shuttle zips through the void towards hangar-five. The small fuselage is surrounded by two wings. He idly notes the six forwards facing cannons roughly equal in bore to the thirty-millimeter chin cannons on Pelicans. The grey and red craft isn't terribly threatening on its own, but the AI doesn't take chances. At least three Rampart point defense cannons track the shuttle until it exits their arcs of fire.

The AI is practically drooling over the shuttle; detecting every ionized particle coming from its thrusters, to the microbursts of repulsors acting as vector thrusters leaking graviton particles. The energy reading coming form the craft's reactors is comparable to that of the _Seraph_-class fighters used by the Covenant though with different fluctuations as it slips through its maneuvers. The craft smooth enters the hangar and swivels in mid air while, much to Blucher's surprise, the wings fold upwards. The shuttle settles on its landing skids between a pair of Pelicans towering over the olive drab craft and stretching almost even in length.

The Captain stands confidently before the craft with two squads on marines in full armor to either side. The hangar is empty of the air crews that would normally be swarming over the dropships and fighters sitting in the hangar. The Captain's void-grey naval uniform, with its bright gold captain's stars and stripes on shoulder boards and sleeves, stands out like a sore thumb between the olive-green armor plates and uniforms of the marines around him.

The AI refocuses on the shuttle as the ramp lowers with a low hiss of hydraulics. Four white armored humans, their faces concealed behind helmets with narrow t-shaped visors, march down the ramp in perfect sync. Small carbines with folding wire stocks are clasped tightly to their chests. Between them marches a woman, approximately in her mid-forties, wearing loose brown robes that would not look out of place in a temple rather than a General's uniform. The AI's sensors immediately lock on to the two small power sources on her person: one on her wrist acting a communicator of sorts judging by the powerful radio waves connecting from it to the intercoms in the helmets of her guards, as well as a much more powerful one at her hip.

Thermal scans reveal a small cylinder hanging from her belt beneath the outer layer of her robes which puzzles the AI as to its purpose. He resolves to keep a close eye on her…along with the ships of her fleet, the repairs still ongoing along the hull of the _Bismarck_, the reloading of the missile pods from storage, and thousands of other tasks needed to keep the two-and-a-half kilometer ship combat ready. With only thirteen hundred naval crewmembers available to operate and repair the thousands of systems throughout the massive ship a lot of the weight of monitoring their status and operation rests firmly on his shoulders to free up the crew.

For example, he detects a heat warning emanating from coolant pump 5-34-5-Q and alerts Electricians Mate 2nd Class James Molin for maintenance to prevent the whole assembly from springing a leak or worse catching fire and reducing the ability of the reactor to cool itself. Meanwhile at the other end of the ship a slight drop in the primary motor assembly of Rampart-7 is detected and the secondary motor is activated thus preserving the point-defense envelope and allowing the Weapons Department time to finish reloading the missile pods before going out to fix the cannon mount.

_'__So much to do so little time…'_

Jedi Master Drana keeps her observations of her allies concealed behind a masterfully constructed mask. Her fair features remain blank even as she panics on the inside. Every man and woman on the ship is completely absent from the Force. She can detect none of them. Their eyes are hard with the pain of war, something she is already seeing in her men after only a few weeks of fighting along the still shifting frontline.

Thick plates of armor cover their bodies but leave the joints unencumbered to facilitate movement. Their weapons have a large cowling for an electronics suite and appear to be slug throwers judging by the number and size of ammunition containers on their bodies. The Captain, an assumption she makes based on the strange rank marks on his collar and the number of golden lines on his shoulder boards and on his cuffs, stands stiffly with his hands behind his back in a void-grey, tight fitting uniform.

Hard brown eyes take in the Jedi Master and her escort flicking over her form and then the Clones accompanying her. His hair is dark black and cut close to the skin on the sides leaving the top a little longer. A strong jaw is kept clean shaven leading to sharp cheekbones. He hesitates for a second, two fingers touching the side of a silver earpiece that no doubt is a cobbled together translator. Her own implant had already downloaded their language during the flight.

"Welcome aboard the _Bismarck_ General. If you'll follow me to the conference room?" The man turns on his heel without waiting for a response. She conceals her reaction and follows along behind him quietly. The Clones and the man's own escorting troops follow along behind, their heavy boots ringing against the deck. The heavy blast doors protecting the rest of the ship hiss aside revealing the interior of the strange ship.

Plain grey steel walls and floors form most of the ship's interior and is broken only by the bright directional paint on the deck. Crewmen hustle through the corridor muttering greetings to the Captain as they pass. The crew is possessed of the busy energy of a warship's crew, and a good one at that. As the Jedi Order is quickly finding out in their brief forays into Space Warfare, warships _always_ have something broken. From minor things like lights in certain compartments to major things. Like guns being offline. The constant war against damaged components and maintenance schedules is a constant in any navy.

The Captain leads them through the maze-like corridors to a plain room with a long table and twelve chairs. A banner hangs from the overhead against one bulkhead with what she assumes is the ship's name in gold stitching along with a hull designator and a coat-of-arms; a quartered blue and green shield on a red field, with a superimposed image of the ship in different shades of grey and black.

The Captain gestures for her to take a seat. Once they are both seated, they stare at each for a handful of seconds. Both waiting for the other to break the silence. In the end it is the Jedi to speak first.

"On behalf of both the Galactic Republic and every soul in my fleet I thank you for your assistance against the Separatists. Without your timely intervention we would have been lost with all hands." She notes the way he tenses when she declares their allegiance to say nothing of the guards stationed with her Clones. Even without the Force in their blood she can feel their unease and confusion.

"Forgive me ma'am but what…_Galactic Republic _are your referring to?"

An hour later sees a drained Captain Jones relaying what he has learned to the rest of the Wardroom. The General was left with her security component in the conference room under guard by two squads of marines, more than patient enough to allow the disturbed Captain to confer with his staff. The reaction to his revelation is about what he had expected.

Weapons officer Commander George Andrew, a veteran of the Insurrection and Covenant war, was grim faced. Jaw clenched; hands clasped under his chin as he takes in every word with a stoic gravity. Comms officer Lieutenant Commander Janet Morgenson paled and began muttering a prayer under her breath. Navigation officer Lieutenant James Benjamin stood and began pacing running a hand through his barely regulation haircut. Flight Operations Commander Aaqib Muhammed looks to be sick to his stomach. Engineering officer Lieutenant Commander James Grofenson sighs and collapses heavily into his seat and shakes his head.

And Lieutenant Colonel Brad Rodriguez looks ready to start a fight, typical of Marines.

"So, the question is people…what do we do?" Jones looks around the room at his most senior officers…and has no idea what to do. The silence hangs heavy around them, even Blucher's avatar seemingly at a loss for words. No one moves to say anything. No suggestions are given.

"Bah…I say we fight." All eyes snap to the sole Jarhead in attendance. "We're fighting men and women, we've got nowhere to go, no way of getting back…and our oaths. We swore to defend Humanity against _all_ threats when the Covenant came—"

"But these people are _not_ the Covenant! Their fight isn't our fight—" Morgenson interrupts and is interrupted in turn by Grofenson.

"_Bullshit!_ These are slavers! Death is preferable to slavery…" Every being present nods. Even Blucher who views his existence more as a service than true slavery. He enjoys serving the UNSC and feels the pain of his crew when they suffer loss. For all intents and purposes, he is just a faster thinking human.

"At the very least we have to consider the ethics of using Clone armies! They're indoctrinated from _birth_ to be loyal and fight for the Republic. They are given no other option and probably treated like equipment," counters Morgenson. The others nod quietly and continue to think it over. The Captain makes a decision. Between fighting for blatant slavery and slavery that has a brighter side… there's only one real choice to make.

"We swore oaths on our honor and immortal souls, to fight for what's right. Neither side is the truly good one. But we know one thing: these Separatists are actively enslaving people along this galaxy's Outer Rim. And this fleet we just saved was meant to be reinforcing one of those prime targets for slavers. A world called Myloth. There's no easy way to say this people but we wouldn't be fighting for human lives…we'd be fighting for aliens alongside an alien power." His eyes sweep his assembled officers taking in their reactions. Their spines stiffen and there is confusion in their eyes. But not anger. Not yet.

"So…we'd be fighting for aliens, and not humans?"

"Yes. But humans are also enslaved by this Techno-Union and their allies in the Hutt Cartels. No one race is safe from this. The Republic lacked the power and military reach to crush slavery entirely, but this war offers a distinct opportunity: with their new armies and fleets they can finally abolish it entirely and press the Hutt Cartels if they ally with the Separatists. And we'd help."

"What's the situation in the war overall?" his Executive Officer Commander Connor Kroeber inquires with a thoughtful expression. The Captain turns his eyes to Blucher who snaps his holographic fingers and projects a map of the new galaxy. Red and green lines form along the shifting frontlines; Republic worlds highlighted in red, Separatist in green. The naval officers lean forward eagerly seeking every hint they can from the madness consuming their new galaxy. Putting aside their confusion at their circumstances, and the choices they will have to make, this is what they are trained for.

On the surface it would appear that the Republic is on the back foot, with the Separatists slamming every point of advance with more ships and troops than the newly created Grand Army of the Republic can counter. Swathes of space are undefended and open to a sudden assault with only under strength planetary defense forces in place to check the assault. Though, where the Republic has troops and ships, they are fighting the droid armies to a standstill. Superior troops and vessels going a long way towards defeating every thrust they come in contact with.

A stalemate is inevitable with both sides concentrating their forces against each other in prolonged engagements. Something that the UNSC is becoming familiar with after the last five years of fighting. The stalemate might be the best option they have for the moment, but it is not the way a war is won.

"This fleet was meant to fill a gap in the lines around this world, Myloth," Blucher explains with all the authority his model had been gifted with in life. The world indicated is highlighted in blue with a massive Separatist thrust directed towards it. Data is produced beside the planet; gravity, atmosphere, population…the small shipyards in orbit around the planet's sole moon and the orbital elevator constructed to aid in the transportation of valuable ores catches all of their attention. The orbital elevator makes the world a strategic resource all on its own to say nothing of the production in materials and the potential to shift the shipyards towards military craft. Even if they can only produce escorts that frees up pressure on the supply lines to keep the fleet in place.

"As you can see the world would be a major asset _if_ it can be held. For that reason, the 23rd Strike Fleet was directed to Myloth…with only a quarter of their ammunition loads for their shipboard guns. Needless to say, this was going to be a tough run even _before_ someone sold out the entire fleet."

"So, you have no doubt that their little diversion was a trap?" Muhammed asks with a dark look in his eyes. His family was killed by the Insurrection during one of their idiotic bombings when he was just a child. Someone had told them that an important UNSC official was going to be there and they decided the price of a few hundred children and their parents was cheap enough to justify killing him.

"You don't make a fool decision like _that_ without it being a setup. The Separatists knew exactly what they were hitting and how hard it could hit back. If we hadn't surprised them from the flank, they would have annihilated the Republic fleet. This was a suicide run. So no one will expect the fleet to have actually made it to the planet in time. If they can deploy their ground troops in time and reinforce the few planetary defense cannons they have we can hold off the Separatist thrust and let the Republic breathe a little easier…"

Somewhere along the line they all wordlessly agreed to join with the Republic. None of them thought anything of it. An oath is an oath and slavery is one of the oldest enemies of mankind. This fight has more meaning to them than mere survival. It is the righting of uncountable wrongs. Even if they know that their actions will have little impact on the war as a whole…they can only do their part.

The General stands as Captain Jones enters the conference room with look of a man who just made a bitter choice. He comes to a stop before her, shoulders back and spine straight.

"There are no articles, or regulations to cover our situation General so I'll keep this brief. My crew and I have decided that, seeing as there is no way to return home…we will join you. At least for this battle. Slavery is something that every man and woman in the UNSC abhors and we cannot in good conscience allow it to occur before our eyes." The Jedi smiles and reaches out a hand.

"Glad to have you Captain. We'll hash out whatever details remain if we survive the next few weeks. For now, I'd like an honest assessment of your ship and its capabilities to better place it in my battle orders, and then we can brief you on our defensive plans."

"Well ma'am, for starters…we don't have shields."

"…_Kriff."_

The Myloth system possesses six planetary bodies; two gas giants that circle the out border of the system, and four solid planets. One of which can sustain life if barely and if it wasn't for Myloth's deep mineral deposits then no one would have settled it. The surface is mostly desert and sits at a balmy fifty degrees Celsius during the day on average, with long mountain ranges running along the fault lines of the continents. A single massive ocean surrounds the supercontinent providing a source of drinking water after being processed by the highly advanced desalination plants along the coast.

The three mining cities that are built around clusters of the water plants contain a population of around three million Twi'leks. One of the most common and desired slave races in the galaxy, the tail-headed aliens come in a variety of colors and patterns ranging from pale blue to dark red. The females are considered extremely attractive to many races while the males are prized as laborers. As one of the few colonies that owe Ryloth allegiance they have some of the best planetary defenses money can buy to ward off slavers and a respectable system defense fleet, predominately _Crusader_-class corvettes and a pair of _Sabaoth_-class destroyers.

The moment the Republic fleet arrived in system these defenses became irrelevant. The _Venators_ and the _Bismarck_ outweigh and outgun the biggest ships already in system by a wide margin and almost equal that of the rest of the fleet together. The troops carried in their holds double that of the garrison of militiamen and professional soldiers. The expertise of the 2nd Battalion Engineers is swiftly put to work reinforcing and adjusting existing defenses while deploying the prefabricated bunkers and barriers carried in their ships. Heavy weapons and the heavy walkers of the 55th Siege Regiment dig in deep with the aid of the 2nd, their commander swiftly forming a reaction plan together with the few vehicles worth their weight maintained by the garrison. The remaining three regiments of infantry dig in alongside their armored brethren.

The 57th, 58th, and 62nd Infantry are full of eager fire breathers ready to get to grips with the enemy. To the relief of the Twi'lek garrison, the Clones brought their own expertise and commanders. And a Jedi General. In orbit, where the weight of the enemy will fall the hardest, Admiral Jaga Mi'Kala, a Mirialan with experience in small fleet actions against pirate lords and decades of command experience, commands the Republic's fleet. To him the inclusion of the _Bismarck_ is one he is glad to solve.

The powerfully armed and armored carrier, though unshielded, will provide much needed punching power for the fleet. With its long-range main gun and numerous point defense weapons it can remain back from the main line and engage targets of opportunity. But that doesn't solve the problem of it not having any shields. While they're undeniably brave, the UNSC sailors seem to be fools to their Republic allies. No warship about fighter weight goes into battle without shields. The Admiral has to wonder how primitive this UNSC must be to not have shields.

"Attention on deck!" Six figures leap to their feet at the barked order. Five are clad in the olive-green fatigues of the UNSC Marine Corps, the sixth and lowest ranking in jet black. Captain Jones waves for them to stand at ease and activates the holotable used for briefings by the ground forces.

"Gentlemen, I know this is not a fight any of us expected. But it is an important one." The holotable presents a picture of Myloth's orbital tether complete with sensor masts and the small point-defense lasers that dot its surface. The berthings are empty of the mining vessels that would normally be nestled in the station's tender clamps.

"This is the single most important thing about this planet behind the shipyards. The tether makes this planet worth something more than the rock the people live on. Your job is going to be holding it against enemy boarding parties. I'll leave the planning to you ground pounders with one caveat: at least one company is to be left on board as security against more boarding parties against the _Bismarck_."

"Second company will be in charge of ship security. They suffered the most during the fighting during the evacuation and we really only need to defend two areas: the bridge and the reactor. The rest of my boys and girls can handle the station."

"Get it done Lieutenant Colonel. I leave the rest of the planning to you mud crunchers."

"Attention on deck!"

"Carry on." The Captain sweeps from the briefing room leaving the Marines to their plans.

"Blucher give us the internal configurations. Thank you. Right my lovelies here's the plan…"

Late in the afternoon, the Separatist fleet arrives. The sudden gravity wave created by fifteen ships appearing in system slams into the _Bismarck_'s sensors like a sledgehammer. Blucher immediately feeds every piece of data he can to the Captain's display. All while musing at the composition of the enemy fleet. All but two of the ships are _Munificent_-class like those they have already encountered. In fact, half of them _are_ ships that they have already faced their guns. The remainder are the doughnut shaped _Lucrehulk_-class battleships. Little more than converted bulk-freighters with capital ship guns and shields strapped to it the underlying vessel remains a civilian ship.

Something the Captain is relying on. Blucher admires the cold mask over his Captain's face, the still expression that hides his emotions, the nerves that he must be feeling. The mask that keeps his crew calm and focused on their duties clinging to his rock in the turbulent waters of war. The AI knows that the Captain is good, his record against the Covenant and the seven kills to his ship's name are proof of that, but that is all intellectual. For one such as he who thinks at the speed of light the world seems to move so _slowly_. Like nothing can ever be fast enough. But he enjoys moments like this: seeing his crew in their element, fighting the good fight.

For the bridge crew, time moves almost too quickly. The plots display the distances between ships, the airwaves are filled with the battle chatter that flows between the fleets, consoles hum under the ministrations of their operators. The reactor rumbles propelling the powerful warship forward and charging the battery banks needed to operate the magnetic weapons.

"Guns, ETA until their lead elements are in range?" the Captain asks in his cold commanding voice.

"Five minutes skipper."

"Sir, multiple contacts splitting from enemy fleet. Profile matches Vulture droids. Count at four-thousand small craft, fifteen capital ships," the sensor's operator reports calmly as if remarking on the weather. "Correction, enemy is launching all of their landing craft towards the planet with the fighters as escort."

"ETA to missile range three minutes," Guns chimes in. The Captain nods and relaxes in his chair.

"Missile pattern Foxtrot-2. I want a nice, wide spread across that swarm. Four pods per salvo and give Blucher the point-defense guns. Keep our fighters in tight. Priority targets for Longswords are those landing craft."

The _Epoch_-class heavy carrier is normally assigned a complement of twenty-four GT-AL Longsword-class interceptors and thirty-six D77-TC Pelican dropships in twelve hangars. However, with the numerous variations and modifications of the class that exist, the _Bismarck_ is optimized for the role of a carrier. With an extra two small craft bays she can carry another ten void-rated craft. This brings her total complement to thirty-four Pelicans, instead of thirty-six, and thirty-six Longswords_._ All three squadrons of the lethal interceptors are arranged around their mothership in vertically stacked V-formations to port and starboard, and laterally along the ventral surface. All to cover the deficiencies in the UNSC point defense placement.

Four pods of missiles vent themselves in an eruption of smoke and fire along the spinal ridge releasing a total of ninety-six Archer missiles. The deadly warheads spread out like a net before the _Bismarck_ burning through all of their fuel in order to reach maximum velocity as quickly as they can. Combined with the closing velocity of the Vulture droids the distance between the two swarms rapidly shrinks. As soon as Blucher judges the distance between the missiles and fighters is right, he triggers a simple evasive routine that has the missiles fire their maneuvering jets, which consist of highly compressed air within a single tank in the missile's body, to _slide_ to the left and right.

Surprising the simple-minded droids, the missiles detonate at the powerful AI's behest. One at a time. Explosions blossom across the swarm's front shattering sixty droids entirely and damaging another hundred due to how tightly packed they were. The shock is visible as the commander of the Separatists orders the swarm to disperse. Captain Jones smirks at the amateur mistake.

"Target lead _Munificent_ with the MAC and Mark-15s, prep fire plan Mike for missile salvo when they reach fifty-thousand kilometers."

"Sir, turbolaser fire detected." Before the sensor's officer can finish her sentence, Blucher fires the maneuvering thrusters to avoid the massive salvo of searing red bolts. Longswords jink wildly to avoid the devastatingly powerful blasts alongside their mothership.

"Execute Foxtrot and reacquire firing solution! Keep our fighters in close, they can't take any of those shots." The deck shudders as six Archer missile pods and another six Bident leap from their tubes trailing grey exhaust. Crimson bolts safely sail three-hundred meters over the dorsal surface missing the _Bismarck_ entirely. Laser bolts lash out from the Separatist ships attempting to deal with the Archers, some even manage to knock out a few. But the largely ineffectual fire can easily be contributed to the wild evasive maneuvers ordered by Blucher.

The AI proves his worth once again; each Archer swarm slams home weakening shields with their incredibly powerful explosive payload and bleeding through in some places. A few of the powerful missiles even make it through the shields where the emitters overload before they can compensate and rip into the hull. Then the Bidents hit. X-ray lasers punch through weakened shields and gouge through armor plating. Weapons are ripped free of their mounts and subsystems are ripped apart. Power lines overload spreading damage along the thin hulls.

One of the Separatists suffers catastrophic damage when the laser bores through the primary magazine igniting the weapons grade Tibanna gas within and vaporizing three quarters of the ship. The remaining five suffer varying degrees of damage running from light, where the Bident's laser carved a trench along the starboard side of a frigate and stripped it of weapons, to heavy. Like holes drilled through both sides of the hull. Either way they lose shields allowing the following volleys of Republic turbolasers to finish them off with ease.

Five ships wiped out almost for free. At forty-thousand kilometers both sides are within weapons range with all batteries. Enough firepower to glass a continent screams through the void seeking to obliterate the shielded hulls of the massive starships. Ion cannons probe shield emitters forcing reserves to activate just in time to struggle against salvos of turbolasers. The Vulture swarm closes to point defense range and each craft begins to maneuver wildly in an effort to avoid the seeking lasers and tracers. Some throw themselves before the transports to absorb the fire that would have taken out battalions of infantry.

The _Bismarck _slides vertically on the y-axis relative to the battlefield using its ventral thrusters to get out of the line of fire. Captain Jones furrows his brow as the range closes, waiting until the last minute for the first haymaker of the fight. He will have to make it count thanks to the slow reload of his main gun.

"Captain point defense is proving to be extremely effective against the droid fighters and landers. However, the damned schweine are too numerous for us to get them all. I recommend cutting Hades squadron loose. The Ramparts and Helix mounts are enough to even that loss," Blucher advises. A little more of the fire

"Do it, greenlight to engage."

Thousands of pounds of thrust shake the sturdy frame of Hades-1 as the Longsword peels off alongside its squadron. The twelve stingray-shaped interceptors burn away from their mothership in perfect harmony. Years of training and combat experience guides every man and woman aboard the heavy fighter craft. G-forces press Lieutenant Commander Thomas Bradly into his seat while he guides his fighter into the path of the alien craft.

"Weapons free as soon as we're in range. Remember Hades: we're not getting into a turning fight with these bastards. Burn in, shoot shit, burn out." Every pilot replies affirmative.

"Entering missile range in sixty seconds, guns are primed," his co-pilot, Lieutenant Hannah Swarovski reports in the seat beside him.

"I'm reading two-hundred plus contacts in range; twenty landers the rest are fighters," navigation and sensors operator Ensign Gregory Li announces from his station.

"Copy all." Bradly's HUD populates with a swarm of red diamonds indicating hostile craft. His brow arches at the sight but he doesn't panic. He's seen too many good pilots lose their cool and make stupid mistakes because they were outnumbered. The bright blue and red energy fire zipping between the Republic ships and the Separatists is an impressive sight…and a familiar one. Images of the Covenant's ships pummeling the capital ships of the UNSC and swarms of Seraph fighters play in his mind. He shakes it off and focuses on the mission at hand.

His thumb flicks up the cover on the missile stud and hovers over it. The Longsword's scanners pierce the fields of ECM thrown out by the enemy craft and lock in on the signature of a lander from the briefing. Each of those can carry a squadron of tanks, and over a thousand droids making them a priority target. The steady, shrill beeping tone in his helmet alerts him to a target lock changing the diamond around his chosen prey from red to yellow.

"Fox-2."

From the ventral munitions bay a single ASGM-10 missile is released and launched. The powerful engine propels the guided missile in on the chosen lander like an angry hornet. The unshielded structure of the lander does it no favors when targeted by the powerful missile. The missile rips into the engines and detonates turning the lander into a flaming ball of scrap. Without pausing he kicks a pedal triggering ventral maneuvering jets to fire. Crimson bolts fly beneath the interceptor harmlessly. Vulture fighters break from their escorting positions and swarm towards the larger and heavier interceptors. Laser cannons spit crimson death at the Longswords who duck and dive wildly to avoid it all, assisted by their experience dodging plasma fire from Seraphs.

"Hades flight break and engage by pairs. Break, break, break." The Lieutenant Commander puts words to deeds and begins a reckless climb to avoid the lance of Vultures heading straight for his craft. His wingman, Lieutenant Vincent Gallard, follows in Hades-3. The engines roar throughout the airframe shaking the experienced pilot's teeth in his head and bringing a savage grin to his face. With a deft twist of his stick and manipulating of his pedals he flips the Longsword on its back relative to the swarm and then noses over. Thirty-millimeter rotary cannons roar silently in the void but send vibrations throughout the interceptor.

Streams of tracers leap from the cannons and carve through first one Vulture droid, then another. A kick of a pedal flips his ship on its side to avoid return fire. The aft cannon thumps merrily under the expert aim of Li assisted by the automated systems spitting fifty-millimeter flack rounds at the passing Vultures. The shells detonate on a proximity fuse, spraying ball bearings in a cloud to damage or outright destroy anything they touch. The crew adds a total of four kills to their tally by the end of the first pass. The afterburners scream propelling Hades-1 forward at maximum velocity before cutting out to allow the engines a cooling cycle. Meanwhile, the maneuvering jets flare flipping the fighter around to face the now pursuing Vultures.

Hades-1 grins predatorily under his helmet. Time for some more paint.

The deck bucks under Captain Jones' feet as the MAC fires. The six-hundred-ton slug slams into one of the wounded _Munificents_ and cores the ship. Half a second after the MAC slug's impact the Mark-15s fire with a dull rumble through the hull, pounding a second frigate on the centerline. The smaller slugs slam into a lightly armored section and nearly rip the frigate in half leaving it as a floating hulk.

Captain Jones grimaces as he eyes the plot. Four seconds after the second frigate dies the _Bismarck_ takes its first hit. A quartet of heavy turbolaser bolts slam into the port side. Two meters of Titanium-A battle plating absorb a good portion of the energy but ultimately fails. Men are sucked through the hull breaches and into the void, atmosphere leaking into space in a ghostly mist.

"Breaches in sections three and five, decks two and seven! Sealing now…damage contained," Kroeber reports in the clinically professional tone typical of an efficient bridge officer reporting damage.

"Captain it seems that their turbolasers do not contain the same power as Covenant plasma torpedoes. Else we'd be dead. But do avoid any more hits," Blucher comments dryly. Jones nods silently. The Republic fleet maintains its formation still accelerating towards the Separatist fleet their guns cleaning up the remaining three wounded _Munificents_ and claiming another four for the cost of a single _Arquitens _and damage to the _Acclimators_. The Republic's Torrent fighters and Hades flight are engaged in a savage dogfight between the fleets and the station, pilots dying to buy a little more time.

The situation looks to be ready to deteriorate with the as yet undamaged _Lucrehulks_ beginning to lend their heavy cannons to the raging gun battle. If nothing changes then the Republic fleet is charging to its death…just as planned.

"Incoming message from the _Martyr_: execute Guillotine."

**A/N: Sup'. This is a warning and message both. Sometime later this year I may be unable to upload for a time, at least until January if it happens. I will be writing still just unable to update until that time.**

**Also, for those of you asking if the ****_Bismarck_**** will be receiving Star Wars weaponry and shields, I can confirm the shields and lasers. However, there will be no turbolasers mounted due to there being a power deficit if I were to equip it with turbolasers as well as shields and light lasers. The lasers will be as a replacement for the current point defense systems only and not for the Mark-15 Breakwater coil guns or the MAC. This is simply because I don't believe that the ****_Bismarck's_**** power plant can reasonably power shields and lasers to go with the more power hungry turbolasers while still being able to maneuver and operate the magnetic weapons.**

**As for the shields there will have to be major refits for those to work and require time in a shipyard to complete along with the addition of secondary generators and associated power supply systems to make said shields viable.**

**As a side note to those of you that care…I'm really over this "Guam is the land of eternal summer" bullshit.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Review Corner**

**Zillafan: There were Broadswords used however they were used as an atmospheric fighter for the most part by the UNSC Air Force and did not replace the Longsword in the fighter role until the post-war period when they were given shields. The shields, however, contributed to making it a slightly slower fighter because of the excessive energy draw required of the system. So, I decided to stick with the Longsword which is faster in vacuum and can be used as an atmospheric fighter-bomber, not to mention is listed as part of the ****_Epoch's_**** complement in the lore. **

**Redshirt047: I don't believe she's under powered. Her main roll in a fleet action would have been coordination, strike craft support, and then direct engagement a distant last due to her possessing a lighter MAC than UNSC ships of equivalent tonnage. I failed to mention in the last chapter that the hit she took was from the bow guns of the ****_Munificent_**** which are the biggest turbolasers engaged in this particular battle. I know that ****_Lucrehulks_**** have what are known as "long guns" but for the sake of this story they are merely longer ranged turbolasers, not more powerful. As for being an old girl…well ****_Epoch_****-class heavy carriers were supposedly used since before the beginning of the Human-Covenant war, but I believe her to be a fresh ship off the line.**

**Manticorzone: While the Honorverse definitely sits at the top of my favorite military sci-fi space operas, and the x-ray lasers used here were based in my mind off of that, the x-ray warhead is rooted in actual science. Just not possible by today's science. I thought that they would give her a little more oomph than a light MAC and twin mini-MACs would have.**

* * *

Announcing Presence

Reality is torn asunder by the raw power of the Shaw-Fujikawa Slipspace drive creating a narrow corridor two-hundred meters off the _Bismarck's_ bow. A swirling portal that the warship accelerates into only to reappear from another one just outside the system within deep space. The ship shudders and shakes with the force of the transition, her hull groaning with the stress. The pilots in their barely docked Longswords curse the helmsman and shake their heads to clear the nausea.

"Status!" Captain Jones barks sitting up in his command chair. The plot is blessedly empty of hostile contacts just as they hoped it would be.

"All systems functional, damaged sections are stable. No injuries reported. Drive charge at eighty-percent, engineering is sending green light for second jump sir," damage control reports mechanically.

"Once more into the breach! No pity, no mercy!" Blucher cheers waving a holographic sabre in the air.

"You heard him helm: prep for second jump. Guns coordinate with Blucher for our first salvo if we're in range. We don't know how tough those things are yet."

"Aye Captain, MAC charged and loaded. Archer pods are green and Bident silos are hot, ready to bring the pain sir."

"Transition in three…"

To the Republic fleet it was simply as if the _Bismarck_ had retreated and left them to face the Separatist battleships alone. With two heavily damaged _Venators_ and the loss of both the SDF's _Sabaoth-_class destroyers they were left severely outgunned by the time they approached outer range of the _Lucrehulk_-class's long-range armaments. And then, like the hand of some far-off deity dispensing righteous fury, one of the _Lucrehulks_ jerks. The sheer kinetic _force_ of the six-hundred-ton slug slamming into its dorsal surface jerks its aft section downwards before the maneuvering thrusters and gravity repulsors can compensate.

Captains stare at their plots in mute shock as another two kinetic slugs, much smaller and slower though still deadly, hammer the now weakened shields further training them and causing several nodes to overload in bright explosions of destabilized power fields. But the massive ship is undaunted swiveling its dozens of weapons batteries around as it recovers from its wild spinning. The _Bismarck_ seems to explode with the number of missile pods erupting from its flanks. Fighters swarm from her bays and race forward to screen against the token CSP (Combat Space Patrol) of a hundred Vulture droids. Another six Archer missile pods, totaling one-hundred and forty-four missiles, alongside two Bident missiles race towards the battered _Lucrehulk._

The three-kilometer wide ship belches flak and laser fire claiming a total of forty Archer missiles and a near miss against one of the Bidents. It is not enough. The Archers ruthlessly exploit the weakened sections of the shields and rip into the comparatively fragile hulls beneath. One "arm" is nearly shorn off entirely. The remaining missiles slam into the shields in sequence disabling them and allowing two pods that were launched slightly later than the others to rip apart the clusters of guns. With her teeth pulled the battleship can only watch as the last two missiles in the swarm home in on her reactors.

Two nuclear bomb pumped lasers bore through the slightly heavier armor plating and rip apart the main reactor. The emergency shut down protocols fail, and the massive ship goes critical. The short-lived star leaves only one two-hundred-meter-long section of an arm to slam into an unsuspecting _Munificent_. The unfortunate frigate, with its shields biased to the fore against the surging Republic fleet, is unprepared for the massive piece of what was the flagship to slam into its aft sections. It too detonates. This time nothing is left.

* * *

**Myloth Station**

Staff Sergeant Ryan Jeffries is having a _very_ good day. Ten years as an Orbital Drop Shock Trooper has exposed him to all kinds of soldiers. Good ones, bad ones…but his favorite are the stupid ones. The ones that take it into the teeth of fortified defenses without competent support or planning and rely on sheer numbers to overwhelm the opposition. The kind that units like his are uniquely suited to dealing with. "Helljumpers" are the force of decision in the modern battlefield. Specters of death and destruction that fall from the heavens and kill everything before disappearing with only spent brass and blast craters as evidence.

In a defensive situation they are the knife cutting at the enemy's flanks, bleeding them for every step while the conventional forces hold them by the nose. And so that is what they do; teams of elite ODSTs move through the service corridors to flank the mindlessly marching hordes of B1 and B2 battle droids. MA5Ks and BR55 battle rifles augmented by EMP grenades loaned from their new allies are put to use. Doors are opened and swiftly locked shut once more leaving clusters of grenades behind.

Holes are blasted in the hordes before they figure out what is happening and the T-series Tactical Droid orders squads to peel off from the main assault and clear the access corridors. This suits the Helljumpers just fine. Jeffries Grins under his helmet, his rifle chattering in short bursts to drop B1 droids in tangled heaps. Every time a B2 appears, Corporal Rivers tosses an EMP over his shoulder and fries the droid.

"Reloading!" he shouts. His finger triggers the magazine release and lets the spent magazine fall to the deck. Training guides his hand to tear another magazine free of his harness and slap the bolt back into position.

"Covering!" Rivers replies and leans around the corner with his BR55. The heavier rifle fires single shots to drop the droids, armor piercing rounds drilling through the light armor on the smaller droids and ripping apart the internals.

"Fall back to the next junction." Satisfied that the access way is clogged with droid wrecks the fireteam retreats to the next junction…a simple tripwire and a pile of spent brass the only signs that they were ever there. Guided by a map projected onto their HUDs they seamlessly weave through the booby-trapped corridors and access bulkheads to the next junction where two corridors cross over each other. The Staff Sergeant swaps his MA5K for the reassuring bulk of a SAW he stashed there before the fighting started. He cradles the heavy weapon gingerly and takes a knee against the wall.

Ten seconds later the now familiar tramp of metal feet on metal floors reaches his ears. His thumb flicks off the safety.

"Best job in the world."

* * *

**Outskirts of Krinet City**

"Someone get the AA up!" Clone Commander VT-4755, or "Victor" as he prefers, barks into his helmet's communications suite. The entirety of the 62nd Clone Mechanized Infantry Regiment scrambles for cover and prays. Prays for the AA emplacements to get the Vultures that escorted the landers to break off their attack, prays that the fleet can keep the orbitals under control, and prays that they can fight back.

The screech of rapid-fire laser cannons and the occasional missile greets his ears as he ducks into the relative protection of his command RTT. The ramp slams shut just in time for the driver to floor it for the city. The high-pitched hum of straining repulsor plates fills the tight air of the transport while Commander Victor brings up the regimental plot on his screens. Forward units are already reporting the enemy landing craft deploying tanks and infantry carriers and his men are being strafed by the damned Vultures, ruining their fire discipline which is the one advantage they have over the Clankers.

"This is Hammer-actual to all units: prepare to receive the enemy. All battalions hold mobile armor in reserve and use them to counter armor spearheads at battalion command's discretion. Repeat: commit armor at battalion command's discretion." He doesn't wait for the confirmation to bring up the link with the fleet. He immediately winces: three quarters of the escorts are gone, both _Sabaoth_-class destroyers are gone, two _Venators_ are falling out of formation, and there are still six _Munificents_ left along with both battleships. No help coming for a while it would seem.

_"__This is Hammer-2 requesting immediate air support! There's an entire division of tanks heading right for me and the RTTs are out of rockets!"_

"Negative Hammer-2 we have nothing to send! Hold as long as you can!"

_"__Hammer-actual, this is Hades-actual. We're on station and ready to render support," _a slightly garbled voice cuts in. Victor blinks. He struggles with his words for a moment and scans the plot again. Finally, he has options.

"Hades-actual, my second battalion is in need of immediate air support in sector one-four. Heavy armor present in the AO."

_"__Copy, vectoring two _Longswords_ to sector one-four. _Hades_ squadron break and engage."_

Three kilometers away, Hades-4 and -5 break off from the squadron's formation. Rolling over and diving in on the orderly formations of AATs. The droids don't react to the sudden threat from the air, their basic programming assuming that they have total air superiority and keeping them in a tight formation meant to break infantry lines. Not avoid strafing runs. The first run sees seven tanks left as smoldering wrecks. Now recognizing the threat, the tanks break formation and scatter to make the runs less effective.

The skies rain shattered Vulture droids, their ability to resist the pull of gravity and make turns that would kill most organics mitigated by the atmospheric drag they must now compensate for. For the pilots of Hades flight and the few Republic birds with them this merely assists them in wracking up kills for only a few plates of scorched Titanium-A and durasteel, and piles of expended thirty and fifty-millimeter cannon shells.

On the ground the Clones cheer as the Separatist tanks are broken before their very eyes by their new allies and their heavy fighters. The remaining droid infantry marches forward unphased by their losses. Right into the teeth of heavy blasters and volleys of high explosive missiles. Victor grins as his transport hums to a stop in the cover of a trio of grass covered hills. He dismounts and is greeted by the chaos of battle. Blasters scream at each other over the distance between the two armies. Wounded Clones and Twi'leks are dragged from the lines to be tended in the armored medical tents while the dead stay where they lie. The ridge lone above the motor pool is entrenched with heavy blasters in sunken pits and missile teams drawn up behind them.

The Commander adds his carbine to the storm of fire slamming into the advancing droids with deadly accuracy. B2 droid platoons are focused down by the heavy weapons leaving the lighter B1 variants to small arms. Victor grins under his helmet as the friendly birds make another pass.

**_Brrrrrtt!_**

"I've never heard something so beautiful."

* * *

The Marines aboard Myloth station hold the line with the kind of fierce tenacity that the title "marine" has been known for since the First World War. Short controlled bursts cut apart the droids marching mindlessly into their kill zones and grenades are used liberally to buy them time to retreat to a new position or simply reload. Years of fighting against the Covenant has hardened them against the horrors of war and numbed them to hopeless last stands. They hurl profanity just as readily as their rifles spit death into the faces of their robotic enemies without fear.

Staff Sergeant Jeffries leads his five-man fireteam through the service corridors and keeps an ear out for the slightest hint of the line faltering. To his pleasure there isn't a single point on their line being stressed. This leaves the roving teams of ODSTs free to harass the enemy using the service passages. The poorly designed and programmed droids cannot hope to compete with the well trained and experienced Marines.

He sidles up to a door and punches the key, SAW already pressed to his shoulder. The light machine gun roars and spits a hail of point-blank armor piercing slugs into the flank of a squad of B2 droids. The heavy rounds either drill through weaknesses in the heavier armor of the super battle droids or crack the alloy enough that subsequent rounds can punch through. They turn sluggishly to respond to the flanking attack and fail to fire a single shot before he shuts and locks the access door. The ODSTs retreat into the red-lit corridors as silently as they arrived.

After a half an hour of beating back the droids from static defenses the Separatists are running low on bodies to throw at the Marines. While certainly far from untouched by the fighting the organic soldiers are better off than their enemy. And Lieutenant Colonel Rodriguez knows it.

"Alright you Devil Dogs…kick these cans of my station! All units, execute Sucker-Punch." At the officer's growled words four demolitions experts grin savagely under their helmets. Charges detonate within the hangars containing the dropships that brought the droids to the station. Controlled application of C12 explosives triggers the emergency containment protocols within the hangars. Consequently, heavy blast doors slam shut trapping the Separatists within the station and unable to pull back or receive reinforcements. Trapped with the _Bismarck's_ Jarheads.

But not for long. Marines are a force that _excels_ in the role of an attacker, their natural aggression and skill sets making them the ideal assault force. And they quickly prove it. Preceding their countercharge with a rain of grenades that either fry the droids or rip them apart in a storm of shrapnel and flames. Then they charge, leaping over their barricades and firing on full auto all the while. The droids struggle to react to the new reality and are quickly swept aside. The few shots the droids manage to get off are largely off target, a few manage to hit and boil away parts of the advanced ballistic-ceramic armor of the Marines and ODSTs but are ultimately too weak to penetrate with one shot.

Armor designed to resist Covenant grade plasma fire, while not truly resistant to it yet, is still more than durable enough to resist mass-produced blasters. A few unfortunate Marines are killed under sustained fire or unlucky hits but by-and-large they press on like a green tide. Concentrations of droids are blasted apart and leave the stragglers open for concentrated rifle fire. The Marines push the droids all the way back to the hangars, previously cleared of any crates that might have been used as cover. Coordinated fire cuts through the remaining droids and leaves them as little more than piles of scrap.

"Status of the MAC?" Captain Jones inquires calmly, ignoring the way his ship shakes and bucks under the barrage of the battleship's cannons. The mighty carrier rolls smoothly along her central axis to spread the fire out as evenly as possible. The lighter turbolasers mounted in their batteries along the _Lucrehulk's_ doughnut-like hull are less powerful though more numerous than the bow cannons of the _Munificents_ allowing the _Bismarck's _two meters of Titanium-A plating weather the barrage. Fighters twist and die around her bulk amid the streams of tracers thrown out by her point defense guns.

"Eighty-percent charged. Mark-15s charged and loaded," Guns reports, latching on to his Captain's serenity to steady his nerves. The tattered Republic fleet charges at the now disorderly Separatist lines, claiming the other five _Munificents_ with their main guns and clearing a hole in the fighter screen for their bomber wings. The strange tuning fork shaped bombers accelerate through the storm of flak and trust in their speed, and their escorts to see them to their objective.

"Shunt power from the Mark-15s to the main gun and prep archer pods seventeen through twenty-two. Put the next MAC slug in their reactor, missiles on stand-by."

"Aye Captain, target solution confirmed. All hands brace for high-g maneuver. Brace, brace, brace," Blucher warns a moment before millions of pounds of thrust stop the _Bismarck's_ rotation and then flip her aft section around to orient the MAC. The _Lucrehulk _flips on its edge to present a narrower target and shield its reactor. Something approaching annoyance flashes through Blucher's code.

"Good enough. _Fire!_" Captain Jones barks. Maneuvering thrusters burn to counter act the immense recoil of the MAC sending a shudder through her keel. The slug slams into the _Lucrehulk's_ arm and shears through it before burying itself in the globe at the center. The UNSC Captain grins savagely as the massive ship spins with the terrible force of his vessel's main gun. The now thoroughly ruined shields prove no obstacle to the Republic fleet, who proceed to pound it into so much scrap. When it is over the remaining Vulture droids charge the remaining Republic ships, ending the existence of one final _Venator_: the _Martyr_.


	4. Chapter 4

Aftermath and Discovery

Captain James Jones watches the hatch shut behind his XO's back and immediately collapses into his plush stateroom chair. The nerves he kept suppressed for the entirety of the engagement surge to the fore. His hands shake, cold sweat soaks through his uniform, his heart hammers in his ears. All the fear and doubt that he kept contained in front of his crew returns with a vengeance. His shoulders heave with deep breathes trying to get his heart under control.

In truth he should not be the Captain. His time in service is nowhere near where it should be for the posting, his evaluations below others in his class. Eighteen years of war has drained the Navy of its experienced office corps resulting in younger generations of commanding officers taking their places on the bridge. Just two years before, he was the gunnery officer onboard the _Gettysburg _before being promoted to the position of executive officer on the _Leviathan_…and then posted to the _Bismarck_ as her CO.

The Flag Officer bridge is empty of the aids and officers that would have coordinated an entire fleet or battlegroup. Their one ship is caught out alone unsupported, and reliant on the good will of those they just met. The war they swore to fight, the _humanity_ they _swore_ to protect, ripped from them.

_'__They will never see their families again…and it's _your_ fault!'_ a little voice hisses in his mind. He can't argue with it. Instead of insisting on promises of aid he blindly pledged his ship and crew to a war that is not their own and, to make matters worse, is actually as a result of hubris and corruption. Not one of survival.

"Captain calm down!" Blucher's heavily accented voice cuts through Jones' panicked thoughts. Human and AI stare at each other as the human takes deep calming breathes, pointedly ignoring the way they shudder free of his lungs. The sudden sweat coating his palms.

"Focus. The crew needs you to stay centered." The AI's soothing tone calms Jones down slightly. The Captain takes his time calming down.

"Thank you, Blucher."

"Of course, sir."

He eyes the stack of data-pads that contain the reports of his fighter component and ground forces along with the damage reports. The _Bismarck_ is a tough ship. She's designed to take hits and break the other guy's jaw while her fighters stab at the flanks. Her two meters of Titanium-A battle plate can shrug off MAC rounds and even resist a Plasma Torpedo from a light Covenant ship.

The much weaker cannons used by the Separatist and Republic ships, and probably all ships in this new galaxy, struggle to get anything done against it. Most expend all of their energy in an violent detonation against the surface of the armor and rip away chunks of plating but leave the rest of it intact. The shockwaves that in most metals would have caused fractures fail to compromise the plating beyond the initial damage. A dozen sections of plating have sustained several shots from the weaker cannons without being entirely penetrated beyond some heat bleeding through that fails to damage any major systems.

Except for the bow cannons on the _Munificents_. The only hits taken by those large cannons ripped through the Titanium-A and exposed the compartments behind it to the cold vacuum of space and claimed the lives of eighteen-servicemen and women. Thankfully, Blucher managed to seal off the affected compartments and saved the ship from further loss of lives and atmosphere. That loss of life weighs on the young Captain. He has the list of names saved to his own personal pad as a screen saver, so that he sees them every time he turns it on and is reminded of the cost of his decision.

Next is the report from Hades squadron along with Angel, and Gator squadrons. Only two Longswords from Hades were shot down during the engagement though both craft were lost with all hands. In exchange for eighty-three Vulture droids and four transports, the kills spread across all three squadrons. Not enough in his opinion. Hades also claimed a further twenty-three tanks and a few score infantry during their short tenure in the ground attack role.

And finally, there was the fighting on the station. The Marines achieved what can only be called a total victory against the enemy's droid army. Outnumbered three-to-one, they held the station with the loss of only seven Marines who were caught in the blast of an enemy grenade or suffered from a lucky blast shot. The total annihilation of the enemy's assault force shocked both the Marines and Jones himself, both used to suffering heavy losses against a numerically superior opponent. Not destroy the equivalent of a regiment with only the loss of a single squad.

Of more immediate concern to the naval officer is the status of his beloved ship's munitions. The point defenses are running at thirty-five percent reserve, while they only have enough Archers to reload all the pods one more time. Twelve slugs for the main cannon remain in the magazine, another fifty for the Mark-15 coil guns leaving them at less than half their maximum payload. On the bright side, there remain another twenty Bident missiles in the magazine…and a single SHIVA-class nuclear warhead along with three HAVOC-class charges. The nukes remain a secret weapon within their arsenal, their existence kept a secret from the Republic. It's an ace in the hole if their "allies" ever attempt to betray them.

The idea of keeping secrets from allies reeks of ONI and makes bile rise in his throat. But it has to be done. An unknown galaxy with unknown allies and an unknown enemy…it makes everything more complicated. Jones sighs heavily and runs a hand down his face.

"Blucher have someone send in some coffee. A whole pot."

Deep in the bowels of engineering where the snipes dwell…a mad genius examines her next project. Electricians Mate Senior Chief Petty Officer Macy Gilovich rubs her gloved hands together in anticipation and prepares to do something that no one in the UNSC has yet done: take apart an alien robot with the intention of shoving a UNSC AI into it. Probes, screwdrivers, torque wrenches and multimeters are laid out across an empty workbench ready to be put to work. A mad cackle rises from her throat, quickly growing in volume and madness.

The rest of her workshop wisely retreat to do…maintenance. Yeah…that sounds right. Maintenance.

**_Martyr_**_,_**Myloth high orbit**

Drana sighs heavily and scans the field reports compiled by one of her Clone aids. What was his name? Beggar? Wrecker? Something like that. The relatively light casualties suffered by her ground troops could be attributed to the near total destruction of the enemy air-space elements that would have secured the skies for follow on bombing runs. The Separatist commander was a fool keeping his bombers in reserve _and_ attempting an opposed landing _and_ assaulting the station without sufficient heavy units.

Or so it would seem on the surface. The kill ratio for the UNSC troops is…phenomenal to say the least. All throughout the still shifting frontlines the casualties have been heavy. A grinding war of attrition seems inevitable despite what many in the Council and Senate would wish or even believe to be possible. The losses in manpower and material on Myloth itself were minor all things considered especially once the Republic gained air supremacy. The droids moved too slowly and too clumsily to respond to the air attacks and still assault the entrenched Clones and militia, their tanks easy prey for skilled bombers and fighter pilots.

In space…it's a mess. The fighter wings were stretched too thin to keep the Vultures off of the bigger ships and the enemy had far more ships. Which translates to more guns as well. If it wasn't for the presence of the _Bismarck_ and the strength of her guns and the effectiveness of her missiles there probably wouldn't _be_ a Republic fleet in system. Only the _Martyr_ managed to make it through the savage fighting relatively unharmed with only minor shield bleed through and the loss of a single laser point-defense cannon, the remaining _Venators_ are heavily damaged and can barely power their shields and engines at the same time. Only one of the _Acclimators_ and _Arquitens_ can be considered space worthy.

Of the System Defense Fleet only a single _Crusader-_class corvette made it through intact though it bears the scars of the fighter mounted laser cannons that peppered her hull in the few moments her shields were down. Said corvette is snuggled up tight next to the _Bismarck_ like a pup to its mother. Everyone in the fleet was able to see the massive ship in action with their own eyes. The way its seemingly primitive weapons tore apart the better part of an entire fleet while weathering the firepower of a battleship _without shields_. It's shaken Naval convention in the minds of the surviving officers.

Swarms of missiles overwhelmed point-defense batteries that should have been able to shrug off squadrons of fighters without letting any so much as scratch the paint. A single massive cannon with enough power to shatter a warship _through_ its shields. Missiles that seem to fire x-ray lasers with enough power to drill through a ship from stem to stern. And _armor plating_. Lots. And lots of armor plating.

The armor on Republic warships is meant only as a secondary barrier, something to resist enemy fire and minimize the damage done to internal systems due to bleed through. To the UNSC, armor is the end all be all. Their ship is layered in armor thick and strong enough to suffer sustained turbolaser fire for an extended period. Their fighters can shrug off light laser fire and out accelerate most other birds in the air and void while carrying the firepower of a gunship. Their ground soldiers are heavily armored, much of the plating much thicker than that worn by the Clones but with less coverage and more flexibility.

Their tactics are unconventional and seem to match the flow of the battle if the camera feeds pulled from the station are to be believed. And they are aggressive. _Very_ aggressive. Their counterattack never once stalled to reform or resupply instead these…Marines pressed their enemy back like a pack of rabid dogs. She dreads the day when she will see them deployed in a ground assault.

A separate data-pad has the estimates for the reinforcements slated to bolster their defenses in system with fresh units and hulls.

"Not that they'll be reinforcing much…" she mutters under her breath. It's a wonder that the Republic can support _any_ war effort for any length of time from a logistical standpoint. A thousand years of demilitarization has largely crippled their ability to produce warships in a timely manner and of any sustenance. The Judicial Forces used previously to break up armed conflicts and solve pirate threats were largely light weight ships hardly suited to direct confrontation with larger capital ships such as what will no doubt feature in this conflict. It will take time for even the Kuat Drive Yards to be modified to produce proper warships.

Meanwhile, the fleets are being supplemented by the _Consular_ and _Arquitens_ classes…along with the ageing _Dreadnought-_class heavy cruisers which form the bulk of the reinforcing squadrons heading for the fronts from the moth-balled fleets scattered across the Core. The old, heavily armed and crew intensive ships are being rushed into combat often after heavy modifications to reduce the manning requirements. Usually just linking their gun batteries to a central computer and a single gunnery officer to direct them. Converted cargo ships with hastily welded armor plates carrying fighter wings are rushed to hot spots in order to take the strain off of the shipboard complements that are so often outnumbered and outgunned by their enemy.

It's a logistical nightmare that almost no one in the entire _galaxy_ has the experience in correcting said mess. The planners in the Grand Army are doing their best and learning on the fly but so much is slipping through the cracks and never arrives or is so poorly organized that it gets there too slowly to make a difference. The Clone Army is already stretched thin on the ground with most engagements being fought with a thirty to one number disparity in favor of the enemy. And the Force is shrouded by the Dark Side, obscuring any hope of foreseeing the future of the war.

Three days after the battle the promised reinforcements arrive. First to exit hyperspace are a pair of _Venators_ fresh out of the construction yards escorted by another four _Acclimators_ that were redirected from their original mission of picking up fresh Clone Legions from Coruscant to this front. And around them are five _Dreadnought_-class heavy cruisers. Bristling with weapons and a durable design they pack enough punch to keep the Republic position stable for a time. Of much more import is the mobile repair ship that arrived with them.

The _Unbroken_ is a kilometer long, by one-and-and a half tall mobile drydock station similar to the mobile repair stations used by the UNSC. Capable of having a pair of cruisers docked with her or several smaller ships she can repair a damaged ship within a week. Given enough supplies and time she can bring an almost crippled ship back to full operational capacity. With the _Unbroken_ and her escorts Jedi Master Drana can breathe a sigh of relief and turn her attention to the Gundark in the room: the _Bismarck_ and her deficiencies. The massive warship truly is an asset.

Fire power and durability rolled into one package along with a respectable complement of heavy fighters. But she is big, and somewhat slow compared to the Republic and Separatist designs. More of a defensive wall meant to hold the enemy at arm's length and pound them with its armaments and fighter screens at the heart of a fleet. And her lack of shields means that she relies entirely on thick armor to resist damage, and armor doesn't regenerate when the damage stops. To say nothing of her total reliance on chemically propelled projectile weapons for point defense. Another problem is the sheer _size_ of the rounds fired by the "heavy carrier's" main gun: nine meters long and weighing six-hundred tons of ferric-tungsten tipped by depleted uranium.

No mobile or non-specialized munitions factory in existence can create such monstrosities without extensive modifications. And the materials used are a problem all on their own, with ferric tungsten being a rare material in any industry and the lack of any large deposits of radioactive material to make depleted uranium found on most planets. Perhaps they can substitute it for another element or alloy… The missiles used are the simplest to replace, a slight modification to concussion missiles to interact with the fire control systems and enhance their payloads to acceptable standards for the UNSC and a specialized production line to create more of the X-ray warheads will do the trick.

No matter what the massive ship will be headed to dry dock for a long time…and that is without taking into consideration whatever difficulties will be encountered during the rotation when considering things that the _Bismarck's_ Captain will want isolated from the yard dogs making any modification more difficult. And then there is making sure that every system is compatible with the new ones and you have a massive mess to be settled.

_'__Thankfully that is someone else's problem.'_

**_Bismarck_****, Myloth High-Orbit**

Blucher is having a rather normal, routine day. No outstanding matters needing his attention. No genocidal aliens trying to reduce his ship and crew to atoms. Only the steady, slow repair of the battle damage sustained to his precious ship by the skilled _human_ hands of the _Bismarck's_ repair sections. It leaves plenty of time for the super advanced AI to do what he loves most: collect data. Unknown to their Republic allies, the _Bismarck_ carries a number of basketball sized stealth satellites normally meant for observing planetary actions.

However, they can be configured to act as stealthy listening posts in a pinch to give extra warning to their parent ships via a direct-laser communications array. To Blucher's pleasure they also have extensive conventional sensors to detect Slipspace radiation burst, RADAR and LIDAR systems, and a camera for giving accurate depictions of an enemy force. Eight of these satellites were spread throughout the system on a ballistic trajectory that is slowed by vector thrusters to keep them in their proper place and to be recovered later by the Longsword flights or even the _Bismarck_ herself.

The passive scanning of engine signatures got boring real quick after his final estimates were processed and verified. The _Venators_ possessed similar acceleration rates and maneuvering to UNSC _Halcyon_-class light cruisers making them an order of magnitude more maneuverable than the _Bismarck_. And with their main armament being mounted in turrets and suitable for duty both as heavy weapons and rapid-fire point-defense they are more flexible. Their design leaves some to be desired however; their twin bridges are heavily exposed and lack the protection of the _Bismarck's_ point defense net designed specifically to defend it and a singular massive hangar bay along the ventral spine creates a structural weakness should the hangar doors suffer damage at any point.

The lighter ships surpass even _Paris_-class heavy frigates and _Charon_-class light frigates in speed and maneuverability despite the size difference. What they all lack, however, are the missile complements and armor thickness of the UNSC designs. Something that the Captain put to good use during both of their recent engagement even if they didn't have the intel they needed for it as the Separatists have the same weaknesses.

Satisfied that he has gathered as much data as possible without a direct tap into schematics and other technical documents, something he intends to acquire the moment they move to a more developed system, he turns the network's attention outwards. And it is only because of this that he detects the first hint of Cherenkov radiation at the edge of the system.


	5. Chapter 5

Of Might and Power

The _Bismarck_ rumbles through space as a massive black spike of Titanium-A propelled on a stream of superheated particles. Captain Jones stares at his plot and dares to hope. Cherenkov radiation can only mean one thing: a vessel exciting Slipspace and no one that the Republic is in contact with possesses that technology. Anxiety competes with hope in his chest creating a ball of general unease in his chest.

_'__What if it's Covenant? We can't stop anything bigger than a CCS-class with what we have in system…and the Republic won't be much help. God, I hope it's UNSC.'_ He desperately prays for UNSC ships. The Covenant would walk over everything in system if they were to arrive in any meaningful numbers with how pitiful the defenses and weapons of this galaxy dealt with just his armaments. The burst of radiation is consistent with either a small UNSC battlegroup or at least twenty Covenant ships. Cherenkov radiation is thrown off by the fission materials present within a starship when it exits Slipspace and with the lower amount of said materials present within Covenant vessels when compared to UNSC ships it makes it hard to guess accurately what they are facing. Only when the sensors get within range of the projected origin point will anyone know what is out there.

"Captain I'm detecting numerous all spectrum scans…I can't seem to get a lock on the origin point, however. Schweine are hiding themselves perhaps," Blucher grumbles from the pedestal. One holographic eye glaring at the sensor station as if it was the officer's fault for the lack of return data.

"Keep me posted. If it's the Covenant…we'll have to get creative." With only the lightly damaged _Bismarck_ along with the _Crusader_-class corvette _Steel Heart_ and the _Arquitens_-class cruiser _Bargain_ as escort their fleet is poorly equipped for a stand-up fight. Every Longsword has its crew on stand-by within their hulls though they know that they would likely amount to nothing against the swarms of Covenant Seraphs that even a mere cruiser can unleash to say nothing of the carriers the aliens are capable of fielding.

"Of course, Captain. Recon drone Alpha through Delta are broadcasting negative returns on all sweeps. Whoever is out there is hiding rather effectively."

**((-))**

Bradly sighs heavily and reclines into his chair. The Longswords are sent out in a scanning pattern, effectively using their bodies as extra sensors for the _Bismarck_. If a fighter goes down then they've been destroyed by the enemy, and the carrier has an idea of where to start searching for targets. It's not glamorous or particularly exciting but it has to be done. Three dead crewmen as opposed to the potential destruction of the entire ship? A bargain price.

**((-))**

The low hum and pulse of the sensor station is the only thing to be heard on board. There's not much to talk about in the Black. And then the station _pings_. All lethargy is banished in an instant.

"Status!"

"Large contact bearing seven-four by negative three-two, whatever it is it's big!" Li reports with rising panic in his voice.

"Get me full power from the reactors, arm missiles for salvo and link us to the _Bismarck_! Coming about on full burn!" His hands seize the stick and throttle throwing the latter fully forward and spinning the Longsword onto course towards the contact. Before they can do anything else a message box appears in his display.

_'__Wait one, visual incoming.'_

"Please don't be Covenant…" Bradly prays under his breath and waits for the visual feed to link. What he sees takes his breath away.

**((-))**

"Visual feed coming on main screen, all fighters linked in," Blucher reports with something that no one would have ever expected from the surly AI.

_Awe._

Captain Jones stares at the main display, fingers tightly gripping the armrests. The display is dark for a long heartbeat before the feed from the telescope is processed by the ship's computers. Five shapes appear on screen illuminated by Myloth's sun. The three smallest ships are a common sight to the crew of the _Bismarck_. A bulky aft section around the engine pods narrowing to the split dorsal-ventral booms. Autocannons and missile pods cover the superstructure except for the bulging ventral bay.

All three _Stalwart-_class light frigates are the black of UNSC warships and remain close together for support. At the center of their formation is a mean arrowhead shaped vessel plated in thick armor, built for wicked speed, and armed with twin MAC guns stacked on top of each other. Oversized Archer missile pods peak between the sections of armor like stingers ready to be unleashed on anything that should attract the wrath of the _Halberd_-class destroyer. But it's the fifth shape that attracts the most attention.

"Beautiful…" Captain Jones sighs, his eyes glued to the screen. Stretching a kilometer and a half in length it glides through space like a pillar of strength. Twin MAC cannons, the most powerful in system, jut proudly from the bow yawning like gateways to hell itself. Scores of Archer missile pods decorate the armored flanks of the massive vessel. An almost equal number of point defense guns scan the void ever watchful for the slightest threat to the massive ship. Myloth's sun illuminates the name depicted in stark white paint against the universally black hull.

_The Seventh Pillar._ CA-23, _Valiant_-class super heavy cruiser.

**((-))**

**A/N: Sorry for the short chapter but shit is picking up and I won't be able to post any updates for a while. Fear not I will be writing for this, but the Navy doesn't give two shits and a Ritz for what its sailors do in their down time while on deployment and internet is never a guarantee. The good news is that I can take this time to both write and work on qualifications while getting paid to visit foreign ports and only have to work while I'm in Australia. I will find a wallaby, I will name him fluffy, and he will be mine. He will be MY fluffy.**


	6. Chapter 6

Wolfpack

Jedi Master Drana watches the feeds from the _Bargain_ and _Steel Heart_ with her heart in her throat. The new UNSC ships are a marvelous sight against the blue-green backdrop of Myloth-IV, the largest gas giant in system. The new arrivals leave little doubt to their purpose in their design and absolutely bristle with weapons. _The Seventh Pillar_ is almost as big as the _Bismarck_ and is even more heavily armed though mercifully lacks the fighter component of the larger carrier. The escorts are fast and agile for their sizes and appear to be armed with the same magnetic accelerator cannons as the larger vessels though no doubt with weaker power.

But all that firepower could wreak havoc on her still weak fleet. The bridge of the _Martyr_ is silent in anticipation of the first messages from the UNSC's now unified fleet, communications between the _Bismarck_ and her comrades coming thick and heavy and heavily encrypted. Thankfully her reinforcements came with supplies of desperately needed ammunition filling her magazines to the bursting with fresh ammunition. The UNSC battlegroup forms up and accelerates back in system towards her fleet's anchorage around the _Unbreakable_. All the while the Force is uncertain as to which way it shall fall.

**((-))**

**UNSC ****_Bismarck_**

Captain Jones stares at the display in his wardroom and the faces imprinted there. The news shared by his fellow Captains is disturbing to say the least. That the damage to the _Bismarck's_ drive created a micro-anomaly at the exact moment that the rest of the battlegroup jumped is…an astronomically small chance. Like trying to hit one particular dust mote with a bullet while traveling through a sandstorm at the speed of sound.

Captain Margaret Franks, the CO of the _Pillar,_ is locked in thought. Her grey eyes are hazy as she processes the news that they have arrived in a different galaxy where a different war is being waged. The rest of the fleet's Captains are on the same line, their faces all conveying their shock and fear in different ways.

"I…don't know what to say Jones. What can we do to get home?"

"I don't know if we can get home ma'am. We're not on any of the charts, and we have no idea of how to even determine which _galaxy_ we're in."

"What about this Republic? Surely they have _some_ idea of how to get us home!"

"With what tech? They don't use Slipspace!" The arguments cascade one after the other questioning how they would get home, if they can get home.

And what they are willing to do to get there. In the end it takes their AIs coming to a consensus to decide. Blucher says it best of all.

"Any and all aid from the Republic is contingent on their good will and since we have no technology to offer them in return…well there is only one thing we _can_ offer a nation that doesn't have our experience in war."

"Our blood."

**((-))**

"One, two, three!"

_"__Twenty-four!"_

"One, two, three!"

_"__Twenty-five!"_ The regular cadence of Marines in the midst of a unit wide workout rings through the gym above the clanging weights and humming treadmills. Second platoon, Bravo-company works itself harder than ever before to regain their fighting trim. Standing guard duty on the _Bismarck_ while their brothers and sisters fought on the station has lit a fire under their collective ass. NCOs drill their men all the harder pressing for higher and higher scores on the firing range and in the simulators. Officers confer with each other to create new tactics to deal with the new enemy and its capabilities. Briefings are given on the most common alien races that are known to hire themselves as mercenaries. And endless workouts to keep their minds focused on what matters, not what is now behind them and probably forever out of reach.

And off to the side are the Helljumpers of Fireteam Viking. Clad in their PT gear, complete with a SOEIV wreathed in flames, they work harder than the normal marines. Pushing their bodies to the limit to get them in fighting trim and to keep them occupied. Bored ODSTs cause problems when cooped up on a ship for as long as they have been. Sweat pores off their trim bodies sticking their shirts to their torsos and pooling under their straining limbs. Again, and again they work through the cycle of exercises that have been a part of their training program since the Helljumpers were first formed. Every exercise working multiple muscle groups to spread the improvement across their forms rather than overbulking in any one area.

Their strength exercises done they move to the treadmills unapologetically shoving over a squad of marines who bow off respectfully. The recent fighting has killed off the interservice rivalry for now. The competitiveness that would normally be thriving is muted in favor of simple workouts and combined drills in the small kill-house set aside for the marines. After the three marine companies cycle through the main gym come the pilots and naval ratings of the flight decks all needing to maintain a high level of fitness to perform their duties at the level they need to be able to perform at. They cycle through their own routines and end the cycles for most of the crew's coordinated physical training.

From twenty-one-thirty to twenty-two-forty hours there are few people using the facilities. The time that Captain Jones uses to train himself and work off the aggression boiling in his gut. Clad in only his Navy issued PT gear and a pair of boxing gloves he circles the heavy bag hanging in the corner of the gym. His feet dance lightly around it as he punishes the sack of sand with blows honed over his time as a boxer in his youth during college and high school before it. His years in the Navy haven't dulled his edge as he makes the heavy bag dance under his fists. Music ancient and absent from radio waves for generations in most parts of human space blares through the gym's speakers providing an ear bleeding tempo for his fists.

For an hour he has the gym to himself. He works the bag, the treadmill. A few of the pully machines. His mind blissfully empty of the reports and supply manifests he is expected to oversee to keep his massive ship and responsibility doing what it does best. Fight. Fight, and then relocate to fight somewhere else. The hours since the UNSC fleet merged together with the Republic formations have been occupied with planning. The defense of Myloth remains a priority but also remains a precarious position. Without knowing it they have created a salient three systems wide across the main hyper-route.

The other two systems were held against token assault forces and have secured their space with additional fixed defenses. Myloth is the more precarious position by far. Something has to be done to secure it until the next wave of ships and trained sailors arrive from the yards. Jones pauses in his battering of the bag, shoulders heaving for breath, and stares at the ship's seal painted across the far bulkhead. The history of the _Bismarck_ is one of terror and disappointment. A sign of times changing when they were at their height. A battleship, king of the ocean, struck down by obsolete torpedo planes and a carrier that never met him eye-to-eye.

The Second World War was dominated by submarines and aircraft carriers killing the big gun navies of the world by never giving them the chance to fight back. Submarines sinking the ships carrying much needed supplies to the front lines and aircraft carriers ripping apart whole fleets with their long-range dive-bombers and torpedo-bombers. And then he has an epiphany. If they can't hold the Myloth system conventionally right now…then what if they make attacking the system, more costly than what it is worth? Any force build-up to take the system from any of the neighboring Separatist systems would need supply lines, and ships packed to the gills with more droids and ammunition and power cells to feed the ships.

Supply lines mean convoys of slow-moving cargo ships. Convoys need escorts to keep them safe during their acceleration and deceleration maneuvers at either end of their journey. While he can't catch them in hyperspace, Slipspace being slower and working in a different manner, he _can_ intercept them from the shadows. All he needs are the routes…

"_Blucher!_ Get me my uniform!"

**((-))**

_"__So, run this by me again: you want to take a quarter of my fleet and go raiding the Separatist supply lines, out of communication except for when you come back here for refueling and rearmament?"_

"Yes."

_"__And you're basing this off of tactics used in a war almost six hundred years ago?"_

"Yes."

_"__Will…will it work?"_

"Maybe." The Jedi Master sighs on the other end of the line and pinches the bridge of her nose. Jones knows the dilemma facing her. The UNSC ships would be untraceable to the Separatists with their Slipspace capability; able to drop into their enemy's staging grounds, smash a few ships, and then jump out without any fear of pursuit. On the other hand, that gives away a major trump card that might be what is needed to keep Myloth secure.

"It'll be just the _Bismarck, Unbroken,_ and _Hornet_. The _Pillar_, _Claymore, Skyfall_ and _Roundhouse Kick_ will remain here with the rest of the fleet. They should be more than enough to see off anything the Separatists can muster right now. No matter how many ships they might have they have to move those ships and that takes time; time the Republic can use to regroup and reinforce where it needs to and start really pushing. This war won't be won by attrition. Not when the enemy can rebuild their losses three times as fast as we can and they can win the public opinion fight too, they aren't fighting on _their_ worlds after all."

_"__The Council is aware of this—"_

"All due respect if your Council was as effective as you and the Republic want to believe then they wouldn't have let this fester: they'd have been hunting down everyone who thought of bringing war to your shores. Instead they meditated and thought of new ways to suppress emotions rather than learn to control them like adults. None of you have been through any military academies and none of you have experienced war like we have. If you actually _want_ our aid, then for fuck's sake listen to what we say rather than dismiss it out of hand because the _Council_ hasn't said it yet!" Jones snaps finally losing his temper. They've been debating their next move for hours.

Even after accepting their aid and expertise the Jedi refuses to make the hard choices: the ones that win wars. The reports that have been forwarded to the UNSC officers, both groundside and naval, paint a picture of a people who don't know what they're doing. Generals committing their troops to actions that cost them inordinate numbers of lives and tons of equipment that cannot be replaced quickly this early in the war. Stupid decisions that cost lives that should not have been lost. Commanders apathetic, not professional but _apathetic_, towards the lives of their men because they are clones.

_"__Peace Captain, there is no need to be angry. Control your emotions."_ Jones bites back his instinctual response to that. Something along the lines of _'oh like you living automatons do? You're trying to act like droids you self-centered hypocritical idiot!'_

Professionalism gained through his career of living through ass-chewings and idiots who blame him for their mistakes suppresses that reaction. Though just barely.

"Ma'am if we do _not_ launch spoiling attacks then the enemy _will_ take Myloth. There is no doubt about that. Maybe we can see off the next attack with luck and skill, but there will be another one and another after that. We cannot sit here and let them dictate the terms of the next engagement. They have the numbers, the manufacturing capability, and the better ships for now. Until the Republic can get on a wartime footing, we're on the back foot. We _need_ to do this while our intel is still current."

_"__Have your fellow Captains agreed to this course of action? I will not allow rash, ill-thought actions to doom this defense and the men of my fleet. What if you disappear and the enemy attacks?"_

**((-))**

It took another three hours of arguing, bringing in every Clone officer and even the captain of the remaining SDF ship before the operation was green lit. The raiding squadron consisting of the mighty _Bismarck_ and two _Stalwart_-class light frigates, _Unbroken_ and _Hornet_, depart from Myloth as soon as the plans are drawn up. Blucher's processing power was entirely devoted to calculating jump coordinates, setting predetermined rendezvous, linking into the holo-net and spying on the CIS fleets that they will have to avoid or destroy, and over all coordination while the humans do their own planning based on the information that he provides them. There are three major staging areas on this front.

One, the closest, is utterly out of the question. A major fleet is gathered there strictly _because _of the supply stockpiles located there. The fifty _Munificents_ and twelve _Lucrehulks_ would take offence at the sight of just three ships taking pot-shots at their charges and no one in the UNSC fleet is keen on slinging MAC rounds at civilian targets. Clever bastards put their depots and fuel supplies over or in civilian centers making any sort of bombardment costly in civilian lives.

The next closest is lighter on defenses and just might be viable…but the third has Jones and his fellow Captains _salivating_. Umbra-IX is a small, dark moon with a small mining colony erected to harvest the tough ores that occur naturally within the moon's crust. The veins of ore are harvested, shipped off, and processed into starship grade plating or some of the toughest personal armor in the galaxy for those who still wear such things. The CIS planted a mobile docking facility there along with a permanent garrison of ten _Munificents_. The docking facility would cost a fortune to replace, enough to construct a hundred capital ships and keep them supplied with ammunition to fight a protracted campaign. A lightly defended position behind enemy lines with all the other ships being too far off to support them.

Something to make the enemy think and redistribute their forces. A kick in the pants that will throw them into confusion for a while, at least long enough to do some serious damage in other areas while they try and adjust. A blow to make even Lord Hood proud.

**((-))**

**Umbra-IX, Twelve Days Later**

The _Bismarck_ and her escorts defy the laws of physics, clawing their way free of the higher dimensions and back into the grips of reality. The Slipspace portals snap shut with a burst of radiation, each portal spread tens of thousand of kilometers distant. Captain Jones watches his two escorts accelerate to join the _Bismarck_ on her own ballistic course. The slow collection of data is fed into her systems. The very edge of the solar system becomes visible after a half of an hour of scanning. Various asteroids and clouds of dust fouling the initial readings before subsequent scans clear the interference. It takes two days of drifting to receive their first returns on the Separatist fleet.

The expected ten _Munificents_ are in their defensive positions around the station, a trio of large mining ships with their hulls fully laden with valuable ores laboring to reach their own jump points…and the station itself. Sitting so exposed and _vulnerable._

"Status of MAC charge."

"Eighty percent. Fully charged in ten. Coilguns are loaded and charged, Archer tubes hot, Bident tubes hot. Ready squadrons are prepared for fast launch. Green across the board sir."

Jones scans the display noting the enemy's positions, the way that their guns are pointing, considering their speed and maneuverability should he have to duke it out with their fleet. _Unbroken_ and _Hornet_ both possess similar main guns to the _Bismarck_, though due to smaller reactors they have a reduced fire rate. The _Stalwart's_ main gun can put a round out every one-hundred and twenty seconds, the _Bismarck_ and all other _Epoch-_class heavy carriers can fire every ninety seconds. The immense firepower afforded to him with such a fire-rate _must_ be properly levered or the _Munificents_ will tear his squadron apart with their own guns.

The _Bismarck_ can weather their weapons due to her two-meters of Titanium-A battle plate and expansive compartmentalization that contains the damage to the local area only. The frigates lack this capability. The only areas possessing more than thirty-centimeters of armor are the gun-bridge boom and the reactor to save on weight and allow for a more powerful ground component as opposed to the _Paris_-class heavy frigate. More than worth it in the numbers that they are normally deployed in…but not here. Not when the hope of resupply and reinforcement is so small as to be impossible to spot. That they are here at _all_ instead of set to drift in Slipspace until they end up dead or worse, fused to their ships or any of the other thousands of horror stories that are made up of Slipspace.

Yes. He is thankful to have more ships with him but very conscious of how much those ships are worth in terms of warfighting ability, and the men onboard. It doesn't take too long to realize what his best course of action is considering their objective and the squadron's capabilities. The superior range of his ships' projectile weapons gives them an edge in an attacking scenario especially one where the enemy is fixed in place; static and unable to leave their charge unprotected. Turbolasers all fire at roughly the same velocity with some variation depending on the amount of power contained within each individual bolt and the quality of the acceleration coils within the weapon's barrel.

A self-maintaining magnetic containment field is no small matter to keep stable over long distances. The various particles and micro-meteors that occupy the space between two ships would prove a slight deterrent to a field's integrity as ever impact would weaken it somewhat, more so in areas with more dense fields of gases and iron-nickel dust clouds. A MAC slug has no such problems. A solid piece of tungsten-carbide or depleted Uranium the size of a car accelerated to a respectable fraction of the speed of light is subject only to the laws of physics. An object in motion stays in motion.

Jones takes in the design of the station and takes note of each potential weapon emplacement and weak point that his guns might be able to exploit. Looking similar to a peanut, the supply station has two club ends and a pinched central section. Docking berths line the central section like hairs on a fly, tiny point-defense lasers meant to fend off fighters and meteor strikes dot the surface. Nothing too threatening without its escorts, and the records strongly indicate that it still mounts civilian grade shields, much weaker and inefficient compared to military grade products but still enough to give Archer missiles issues in piercing. Luck and overwhelming numbers are needed for the conventional warheads to cause any significant damage to a shielded vessel meaning that several pods have to impact one ship at roughly the same time in order to overwhelm their weaker emitters.

Missiles that are hard to replace in an extended operation. Keeping his fighters in the hangar keeps them safer for now than if they had been in void and exposed to enemy fire without the heavy armament and weapons of the _Bismarck_, once the last Longsword is destroyed that's _it_. There are no replacements from the UNSC en-route that could be relied on. There are no replacement crews on the roster or replacement planes. Barely enough replacement parts to keep them operating for the foreseeable future. But plenty of fuel and ammunition to keep fighting.

"Fire first salvo on my mark, all ships target the central section of the station. MAC and coilguns only. Mark!"

Three MAC slugs leap free of their former homes igniting trails of particles with the speed and friction of their passage, and hot on their heels are a total of six smaller slugs from the Mk-15s of the _Bismarck_. Jones watches coldly as the defending fleet reacts to the sudden threat. One manages to get in the way of the _Unbroken's_ MAC and three of the smaller slugs. The MAC slams home, popping the shield and buckling armor plating beneath it. The three smaller slugs of the Mk-15s plunge deep into the alien ship's superstructure rupturing power supplies to the starboard and bow batteries. Great gouts of flame erupt from the damaged sections before the void of space chokes them. The rest of the salvo slams home in the station. The station is not built for such extremes, its structure unarmored and arranged to better hold and transport supplies.

Not absorb the massive kinetic force of UNSC MACs or resist the ripple effect torturing its understrength frame. The MAC rounds punch through the central spine popping the shield and shattering the central structural hexagon where they strike. The metal ripples destroying supports that would have served to keep the station together. It is nearly torn apart in the first impact, the three rounds from the Mk-15 that rip into the remaining section causes the station to separate under the weight of its own frame. The violent jerk and twist shears through the halls and spans keeping it together. The two halves now separated from each other drift away slowly while their escorts charge forward to attempt to intercept the raiders recharging their weapons.

"That kicked the hornet's nest. All ships will fire Archer salvo on these four ships, I want one Bident on each. Make it happen Guns."

"All hands brace for evasive maneuvers!" Blucher shouts an instant before the _Bismarck_ lurches to the side throwing men and women off balance. The hull groans with the sudden strength for a moment. Beyond the titanium hulls of the UNSC ships a storm of angry crimson bolts flies past. Each enough to cripple one of the _Stalwarts_ with a single hit. It forces the squadron to continue to maneuver to avoid incoming fire and makes obtaining a firing solution that much harder.

"It's like they're angry at us. Fire missiles, I want the coilguns on that lead frigate!" Jones barks and brings up a secondary plot, making a quick calculation and finding himself angry with the results. If his squadron flips around now and begins an acceleration burn to leave the system, then they _might_ escape without taking any damage. Something that they desperately need if they wish to complete the mission within the parameters. One more MAC salvo would be enough to finish off the station if they get a clean hit. He comes to a surprisingly easy decision. He'll do both.

The two halves of the station are powered by a unique twin reactor design to save them the hassle of having to supply the power to the far ends of the station. It also makes it able to better survive an event such as it has experienced so far by not having one massive reactor to go critical. Meaning that there are two megaton nuclear bombs sitting just behind the defense fleet's formation. He had hoped that the stress of the station tearing itself apart would have finished it in a flash of blinding light and then he could jump out without having to trade shots with the Separatists. That plan went out the window.

"Fire missiles!"

**((-))**

Blucher's mind works at the speed of light consisting of billions of lines of code based on a donated brain's own thought process. To him the universe is a world of numbers and set values. Everything has a tangible value. Except when it doesn't

He, like every AI in UNSC service, is frustrated by the intangible. Being able to feel the right answer to a problem has regularly flummoxed the super intelligent AI's when their human counterparts do something that they never would have expected. It is greatly comforting to him to be able to predict his Captain's action. Without waiting for the Gunnery Officer to input the calculations or even select his weapon system, Blucher is done. Two more Bident missiles are primed in their silos, the doors sliding open with glacial slowness to his perception.

The triple barreled coilguns traverse to track their new targets. Capacitors humming like swarms of hornets just below the mounts themselves. Solid tungsten slugs loaded into their breeches and just awaiting the signal to fire. Both powerful weapons in their own right but hopelessly underpowered compared to the main gun that is already almost fully charged while the weaker reactors of the _Stalwarts_ are just approaching fifty percent. A thrill of satisfaction runs down his spine as his Captain selects the predicted targets with the predicted weapon systems.

Blucher in real life had been an aggressive commander always on the attack and never letting something keep him down. Blucher the AI is a being of logic and a cold determination to see his ship and crew to victory no matter the cost. So, he links with the AIs of the _Unbroken _and_ Hornet_, Freya and Nimitz respectively, and coordinates their Archer salvos. The four pods contributed by the smaller frigates burst free of their silos, a Bident missile following either one. The missile swarms home in on the second and third _Munificents_ in the arrowhead formation the droid-ships adopt in the attack. Some are destroyed by point defense guns. A total of seven are intercepted by scrambled Vulture droids.

The remainder slam home in a storm of high-explosive force that overwhelms isolated shield nodes and rips holes in armor plating. The _Munificents_ would still be mostly combat effective after the Archers were expended. But they were not the true thrust of the volley. That belongs to the Bident warheads that slipped through unmolested. The bomb pumped X-ray lasers are perfectly aimed drilling neat holes through layers of armor plating to rupture the primary magazines for both ships.

The coilguns fire targeting the lead ship. All six rounds slam into the shields of the frigate, weakening it to the point of near failure. Then the MAC fires. The massive hunk of tungsten cores the _Munificent. _A hole is opened in the formation; one that the second salvo of mixed missiles, fired behind the first, is swift to exploit. Fifty-two Archers slam themselves into the trailing _Munificent_ distracting it for the Bidents to pass by. Too late the Separatists recognize the danger. The two warheads target the shattered station's reactors in short lived suns. Blucher experiences a burst of code that a human would interpret as elation and flips his ship around. Engines flaring and leaving a trail of superheated particles behind them as Separatist fire chases them into the nothing of space. Slipspace portals yawn wide and the UNSC ships power into them. Blucher has an eternity to bask in their success, observing the crew celebrate such an unmitigated success, before he becomes bored with it.

_'__This steel is my worth. The enemy is unable to break it,'_ he paraphrases in his personal cyber space with a burst of satisfaction. Only the Captain remains impassive in his command chair, swiping through ammunition reserves with the air of one who knows that the worst is to come. Blucher nods, knowing that he chose right.

**((-))**

**A/N: What's up people! Got back from deployment right back into the hot and humid Guam air, was promptly kicked off of the Emory S. Land and moved right across the pier to the Frank Cable and now here I am! Whooo! Updates may or may not be resuming what with work schedule and everything but I will do my best to continue to write as best as I can. Peace!**


End file.
